It has taken a few months, but my life is getting back to normal at last. My body is nearer to health than it has been in a long time, and my mind is mending alongside it. Well perhaps not mending, but reawakening. Dormant no longer, beginning to seethe and roil once more, unchained from the fetters of sleep and preoccupation.
Spring has come for both the world and my mind, bringing a new bloom of buds and, soon, blossoms. Now is the season of growth and green, newness and nearness. While the buds seem to take ages to appear, aeons to bloom, beneath the visible, they begin to pullulate. Ideas and buds must be tended, guarded, if they are to become flowers. Sunshine alone is not enough for them to grow: they need to be watered, to be fed, to be loved. Strange though it may be to consider, but does the plant love the bud? Surely it must. Whatsoever we birth, what we give of ourselves in order that they might flourish, must be loved by the provider. It is a part of us. Each of our ideas are a part of us, not apart from us.
Soon, I hope, will my new growth come to fruition that I may post it here. But once more I find the corollary to buds. When overwatered, overfed, overnurtured, they will die. Ideas must be allowed to open in their own time. Not in ours. We can no more force a rose’s petals into bloom by hand than we can unfold an idea by force without tearing it and ruining it by means of coercion.
Whether they bloom by the day or the month or the year, they will come in their own time. And that rare bloom that comes but once in a lifetime, though some call her ‘late’, is all the more precious for her rarity. I daresay that such an idea is more beautiful than any such flower though. Ideas once unfolded shall never wilt.
In any case, my rambling is over for the moment. Soon, flowers.